


pink, like the truth you can't hide

by batofgoodintent (crownedcrusader)



Category: Batman (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Teen Titans (Comics)
Genre: BAMF Koriand'r, CW: Sexism, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Female Dick Grayson, cw: direct mentions of assault in later chapters, genderbent dick, pretend relationship for publicity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28485381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownedcrusader/pseuds/batofgoodintent
Summary: If Gotham is focused on Dixie Grayson’s latest scandal, no one will notice that half of Bruce’s taxes are written off to fund Batman.It’s a perfect plan, because Dixie Grayson can be very, very distracting when she wants to be. The only problem is all the sexism that comes with it.
Relationships: Cassandra Cain & Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson/Koriand'r
Comments: 13
Kudos: 82





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dick is the only genderbent character in this. YES, it's lesbian dickkory because I'm a stupid lesbian, but this is also a thought experiment about how dick's role as bruce's ward might have been different if dick was a dixie instead. also, if you get kylie jenner or kim k vibes from him, yeah, thats intentional. no one expects kim k to secretly be a vigilante even tho shes never been in the same room with nightwing at the same time, just sayin

Dixie Grayson was used to the world making assumptions about her. And she knows the joke that always follows; assumptions, with emphasis heavy on _ass_. 

When she turned eighteen, she could either laugh along with the joke, or take offense. And Dixie has always been a performer, so she rolled with the punches and laughed along with her best lipstick-pink smile. Even when the jokes turned into her entire public persona. She’s pretty sure they aren’t jokes when they start appearing in headlines both with and without her permission. 

Sure, Bruce had been protective of her when she was a young girl, shielding her from perverts and vultures in the press. But she was a _kid_ then, and most reporters knew not to mess with young children. 

But it seemed like the instant she got to high school, Bruce had to do a lot more legwork to keep Dixie’s privacy. And that was when she’d learned that not even Bruce could filter everything. 

He managed to keep people from following her at school, and he kept people out of the manor, but there was little he could do about anywhere else. Worse, there was very little he could do about the things posted online. Edited photographs, real photographs, gratuitous fetish art -- you name it, she’d found it. She’d learned ages ago not to google her name. 

However, the grossest thing she ever found was a timer that counted down to her 18th birthday. Creepy enough on its own -- but then she found out it had been started when she was _thirteen_ . That one _still_ haunts her, and she’s turning 25 next month.

Dixie had done her best to deal with it though. And at times, and despite Bruce’s protection, she’d even played it up when it could help keep their identities a secret. No one cared about a billionaire’s shady connections with a vigilante -- not when his teenage daughter just released a semi-nude picture.

It always made her feel dirty afterwards. But she’d done it when she had to, and she hadn’t listened to a single one of Bruce’s concerns for any of it. 

_“It’s just a stupid distraction, B,”_ she’d said when she was sixteen. _“It doesn’t mean anything. How is it different from those charity galas you throw to distract people from how much money you spend on bat-weapons?”_

He’d argued something back to her, then. But she couldn’t remember what he’d shouted at her before she slammed the door and stomped up to the gym. 

Well, now she's almost a decade older, a lot wiser, and loathe as she is to admit it, she regrets those choices. She regrets how she became Gotham’s sex symbol at sixteen. Loathes how she built up a reputation that her looks were second only to her trust fund. 

She also regrets how that reputation follows her, even after years of distancing herself from it. 

When she’d moved to San Francisco, she’d adopted button-downs and loose jeans and close-cropped hair. She’s loosened up since then, eased back into glamorous dresses and high society curls when she’s in Gotham, but she’ll never forget how much easier it was to breathe back then. Back when she could have been any butch on the street instead of Dixie Grayson, billionaire heiress and sex symbol extraordinaire. 

But now she’s back in Gotham. And everyone knows exactly who she is and what they can get out of her, if they can only convince her. 

Which means tonight she’s in a low-cut dress with no back. Horrible enough on its own, but it’s so tight around her hips that she can barely walk in it _without_ heels -- let alone the strappy stilettos she’s been given. Is this really what passes for fashion in Gotham now? 

She misses her button-downs and jeans. Hell, she misses her compression shirts and yoga-pants. She’d love to be working out right now -- punching her way through her newest simulation or punching bag. 

She wishes she hadn’t agreed to tonight. Wishes she hadn’t lied and told Bruce that she was comfortable here, in this dress, in this Gala, with his less than stellar guests.

But she had. So here she is. In a stupid-tight dress, drinking stupid-bubbly champagne, pretending to be stupid-giggly drunk, and watching the stupid-sexist guests at this stupid-rich gala. 

Dixie wishes she could just hide in a corner and glare at anyone who approaches her. 

But that’s not the Dixie Grayson way. 

So when a man who’s easily twice her age walks over to her with a _look_ in his eyes, she knows her job, and she’ll do it well. But that doesn’t mean she has to be happy about it in her head. 

“Wilfred Petersburg the Second,” the man says. He extends a hand for her, and Dixie pretends to have a limp-fish handshake instead of the one that’d leave him in a cast. “Lovely handshake, madame. You know, I have a son about your age.” 

For an instant, Dixie smiles, and it isn’t totally fake. She wonders if this will be, for once, an age-appropriate match. It’d still be with a sleazy rich man who just wants her for her fortune, but hey, at least he wouldn’t be terrible. “Charmed. Is your son Wilfred Petersburg the _Third_ , then?” 

“Quick on your feet, I see.” He laughs, belly shaking with it. He raises his glass to hers until it clinks. It doesn’t escape Dixie’s notice that it’s full -- but she has the distinct impression that it’s been refilled several times through the night. His breath smells like whiskey and fancy cheeses. Not a good mix. 

Still. At least he hasn’t groped her or harassed her too obviously. Dixie can handle a chat, even if it is with a drunken creep.

They talk for almost five minutes -- aimless, businesslike topics. Nothing that touches on Bruce’s actual business ventures, of course. Petersburg assumes she knows very little about Bruce’s company, and continuously steers the conversation towards how wonderfully she could do in movies. 

They’re supposed to be compliments, but after the third one, they just make Dixie’s skin crawl. 

She misses when she was publicly dating Koriand'r. Even though their relationship was fetishized to hell and back, at least Kory went to events with her. At least she had someone to edge her out of situations like this. Or even if Dixie was at a party alone, she could still say she was in a relationship. Right now, Dixie is on her own.

But then, just as she’s trying to end the conversation amicably, he does it. He ruins any chance of this being a decent conversation. “Tell me, my dear,” he starts. “And forgive me if this is too forward. How would you feel about having a stepson your own age?” 

And just like that, Dixie’s smile becomes forced. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” 

It doesn’t matter that he’s apologized for being too forward -- they both know it’s a nothing apology. It doesn’t mean a damn thing if he’s proposed it anyways.

Petersburg doesn’t take the hint. “Yes, yes, of course, my dear. My best ideas always come when I’ve had a bit to drink -- but I’ll admit they’re not always as clearly formed as I’d like.” He flashes a smile that she thinks is meant to be charming. It takes some work not to grimace. “I don’t suppose you’d want to provide me with a Wilfred Petersburg the Fourth?” 

She tilts her head to the side. Takes another sip of champagne. “With you,” she asks, “...or your son?”

His face turns visibly red. “I-- hm. You have a point. ...I suppose I already have a Third as my son.” He chuckles, like she hasn’t just given him a painful dressing-down. “But that’s with a different misses. With another wife, I should really allow for a - a Fifth? No, _Fourth_ , you see.” 

He’s drunk. She has to remember that, because he’d never say this sober. He’d only think it, then, and thinking it isn’t half as bad as acting on it. 

Dixie forces an oblivious smile. It worked better when she was younger. At twenty-five, she’s pretty sure she just looks like a sugar baby asking for cash, which has the opposite effect of what she means. “A very sweet offer, Mr. Petersburg.”

“Please, call me Wilfred.” 

“Mr. Petersburg.” 

“Very well, Miss Wayne,” he says. He shakes his head with a smile, as though she’s being a tease. And that might be the look that she hates the most. She doesn’t care that he’s drunk -- he should still know better. “Don’t you forget my offer, madame. I’d make you a Petersburg in a heartbeat.” 

“Thank you for the offer. I’ll keep it close to my heart -- but you must know I’m a Wayne first,” she says. _I’m a Grayson_ , she wants to snap. _I am a Grayson first. It’s still my name. Not even Bruce could take my name from me, and you think you could?_

She manages to keep it inside.

Another night, she might have sent him off with a wink and a grin. Something to keep her reputation as a seductress and a tease. Tonight, she barely smiles. 

She needs an escape.

To her luck, she notices Bruce across the floor. “Will you excuse me?” she asks. “My daddy just showed up.”

Calling Bruce that still makes her gag. 

Wilfred Petersburg the Second looks a little too disappointed -- which means alcohol is definitely heightening his emotions. But he nods anyways, and gives Dixie a very long kiss on the knuckles. 

Then, she’s released just in time to see Bruce’s face in the crowd again. She tries to track it so he won’t disappear before she can find him. 

She manages it for two full minutes of rushing through the crowds before he drowns in the sea of faces, and she drowns in her dress. Not literally, of course -- but the fabric around her chest is so tight it might as well be true. 

It’s no better at the legs. She can only walk at half her normal pace, and even that is a challenge. 

If she wants to get to Bruce before he’s plucked away by his own vultures, or before he crashes his own party, she’ll have to cut through the dance floor. 

But the instant she tries, a man only slightly younger than Bruce intercepts her. His hand closes around her wrist, then ‘gently’ coaxes her closer. 

“Just passing through,” Dixie says.

“What, don’t you recognize me, Dix?” The man smiles at her. It doesn’t seem to be a mean smile -- only a wanting one. Which she knows because of the leer, and the fact that he smells more strongly of alcohol than Petersburg had. But even if he doesn’t _mean_ to come across as a forceful, entitled creep, doesn’t mean he isn’t being one. He pulls against her wrist, hard enough to overbalance her if she were any other woman.

As it is, Dixie is much too strong to let such a weak tug pull her in. Even in these heels, she’s too graceful to fall into his arms. But she can’t snatch her hand away, either. So she’s left standing uncomfortably close to a stranger who won’t willingly release her arm. 

Dixie grits her teeth. 

She knows she’s supposed to dance with him. In the past, she probably has. She has uncomfortable memories of ‘letting loose’ before, with her body changing partners every few minutes on the gala dance floors. This exact man has probably led her through fifty waltzes and tangoes over the years. She knows his face well enough, but his name is a blur. Carl something. Probably a Livingston or a Rhinelander. 

Can she really afford to be rude to him when her whole purpose tonight is to be an enticing distraction? 

The answer is no. 

So she gives in and flashes him a winning smile. “Sorry, Carlie. I got into the champagne again -- he room’s a blur, I barely recognized you in…” She tilts her head intentionally, peering at his tux lapel. “Mmm. Is that Armani?” 

“For you, gorgeous, it could be.” 

And god, what is that even supposed to mean? It’s either Armani or it’s not.

Dixie laughs anyways, because she knows she’s supposed to. 

She grabs a champagne bottle from the tray, ignoring that she actually has had three glasses of champagne tonight. One more and she won’t have to pretend to be drunk. 

Which will be dangerous, but not for the reasons most women fear. 

If she gets drunk, she’ll get worse at acting. Her real thoughts will get out, and Dixie Grayson might just spoil everything. 

She downs it anyways, because this is her cover right now -- and if she has to dance with Carl Something-something while he gropes her through her dress and she pretends to enjoy it, she might as well be tipsy.

She’s just placed the glass back on the waiter’s tray when she backs into a figure who wasn’t present just a moment ago. 

They’re so solid that for a second, she thinks it’s Bruce. 

But she recognizes that unique scent even before she turns. Fire -- ozone. And spices that she’s never quite been able to find on Earth. 

Koriand’r. Starfire. 

Dixie turns around so quickly that she almost stumbles. 

Kory catches hold of her before she can. Once Dixie has righted herself, she lets go -- the way people ought to. Carl Something-something could learn from her example. 

Dixie finds herself still swaying a little -- Koriand’r frowns when she notices. After all, Dixie is the most graceful woman she knows. She offers her a hand. 

“-Must be my lucky day. _Two_ models for the price of one?” 

Carl Something gives the pair of them an appreciative look, and Dixie grits her teeth when she remembers he’s still here. It can’t be that easy, can it? 

“There is no price, thank you.” Kory’s regal tone is like ice. Dixie realizes with a sinking stomach that it’s going to ruin her mission. “You may leave.” 

Carl frowns. “‘Scuze me?” 

“You are correct. I have already excused you,” Kory says, in that same ice-cold tone. “Dixie, love. It is good to see you. I see you have had some champagne… May I interest you in a water?” 

Dixie turns her head to look at Carl, to see if he is going to make a scene. He’s certainly drunk enough for it. 

She doesn’t feel the most sober herself, though. She closes her eyes when Kory tilts her head away from the man. “There is nothing to see,” Kory says easily. “He is leaving.” 

“Didn’t threaten him with… _starbolts_ , did you?” 

Kory’s smile is not reassuring in the slightest. “Does it matter? He is gone. You do not have to pretend to enjoy yourself any longer.” 

Dixie winces. “You can’t say that when we’re still at the gala,” she says -- voice going hushed and serious, an approximation of her Nightwing voice. “We’ll talk about this later.” 

“But will we?” Kory tilts her head to the side, looking down at him through those long lashes of hers. Her vivid green eyes are so distracting that Dixie almost forgets how to look away. More than once, Dixie’s wondered if Tamaraneans have the power to hypnotize. “We have not talked in months, my love.” 

Dixie’s heart skips a beat. 

If she were any drunker, she would have kissed Kory. She hasn’t heard that pet name in ages. But for Kory to use it when she’s feeling so low… it isn’t fair. 

Kory must realize the effect she’s having on her, because she gently tucks a lock of dark hair behind Dixie’s ear. It feels intimate -- but the look in Kory’s eyes is such gentle affection that Dixie isn’t sure it’s romantic. She leans in closer, considering her. “We will discuss this when you are sober, perhaps. I will arrange to stay the night.” 

“With who?” 

The words leave Dixie’s lips before she means to. 

Kory frowns. “I was not planning on bedding one of your guests, if that is where your mind went.” Dixie’s face flushes. How drunk is she, to think such a thing? She hopes Kory will drop it, but she never has before. Kory has never let her get away with this behavior. “I am not here as an accessory or a distraction. I am here for _you_. If I do not share your bed, then I will be sharing no one’s at all. Frankly, I wouldn’t share your bed tonight, when you are in such a state.” 

Dixie swallows. Her ears ring, and not just because the band has increased in volume tenfold in the last few minutes. 

“I’m not that drunk,” Dixie says. 

“I was referring to how…” Kory trails off, considering. “Hm. I was referring to your _method acting_. There is not an adjective for it that does not dishonor you. Not in this language.” 

“What comes the closest?” 

“You’re behaving like a… a _tease_ ,” Kory frowns even using the word. “-And you usually carry it with you all through the night. It is acting, and you I do not like being unable to distinguish your desires from your distractions. Even if we are not together, it makes me uncomfortable.” 

Dixie closes her eyes. “I said I didn’t want to talk about this here.” 

“No one can hear us over the band.” She pauses. “Especially not when they are too busy _watching_ us to listen in to what we’re saying.”

“They’re watching us?” 

“You really are out of it, aren’t you?” Kory frowns, then gently cups Dixie’s cheek. “Come.”

“I can’t leave yet.” Dixie swallows. “I need to make a scene.” 

“You have had plenty of opportunities, but your heart has not been in it. I don’t think your scene will happen tonight. Not in the way you planned.” Kory’s expression softens, and she leans in closer to press her forehead to Dixie’s. “Will you go with me if I help you find an alternative?” 

Dixie bites her lip. “With you?” 

“So your head _is_ still attached, even after so much champagne,” Kory teases. “May I kiss you?” 

“I thought you said you didn’t like my method acting.” Dixie raises a brow; tries to look casual and charming. “Are you enabling me, Ms. And’r?” 

“I’m asking to kiss _you_ \-- not your persona, Dixie Grayson.” Kory’s expression is like ice. And Dixie realizes that the only way that Kory is going to kiss her is if she is fully herself. “Do you want this or not?” 

“Yes.” 

“If you would like me to touch you, guide my hands. I do not wish to overstep.” With that, Koriand’r leans in close and presses a feather-light kiss to her lips. Nothing like the passion and heat that they always had before. It’s perfectly light -- nothing like the scandal that Dixie has been angling for all night. 

But. 

She doesn’t want this to be a scandal. 

She doesn’t want a scandal at all. 

So Dixie slips her hand into Kory’s, only to hold. There is no touching inappropriate for a gala. Only the shared kiss of two high society models -- as elegant and charmed as if they were wives. 

Dixie lets it linger for a few seconds. Long enough for anyone to get a picture if they so chose. Long enough for it to make the front pages. 

Supermodel Kory Anders and Billionaire Heiress Dixie Grayson back together? -- that will have to be as scandalous as the headlines get. Kory is right -- Dixie isn’t in the right headspace to play the rest of her part. 

Once they finally part, Kory looks at her with that same gentle affection as before. She gives her hand a soft squeeze, and Dixie realizes their hands are still intertwined. 

“May I finally rescue you from this place?”

Dixie nods. Then, with nothing more to say, and no more arguments to dig for, Kory leads her away from the dance floor. She even leads her past Bruce, who takes one look at Dixie’s dour appearance and nods his assent. 

He didn't need to give it, not really. Dixie doesn't need his permission to leave. But -- all of this is for Batman's protection, isn't it?

It makes her feel the tiniest bit better, knowing that he can handle her absence. So Dixie takes a breath, steels herself, and lets Kory take her upstairs to the rest of the manor.


	2. Chapter 2

Dixie barely remembers getting upstairs to her room. 

She sets down on the bed -- barely able to, with a dress so tight across her hips. It doesn’t seem like she will be in it much longer, though. Not with how Kory digs in her pajama drawer. 

She pulls out a matching set. Silk, but pants and a collared shirt. Nothing even remotely scandalous. 

“I do like my nightshirts, you know,” Dixie says as she carefully -- clumsily -- unties her strappy stilettos. “You don’t have to overcompensate.” 

“If I see you in only a nightshirt, I will be unable to get it out of my head for weeks,” Kory says as she tosses the silk set at her. 

Dixie catches them just as her shoes drop to the floor. “The nightshirt will stay with you more than this?” She gestures to the outfit. “Really?” 

“It’s a ridiculously over the top character. It isn’t _you_ ,” Kory emphasizes. “Your usual pajamas are. That is what makes them so commanding.”

Dixie actually blushes. But she turns away and slips out of the dress before pulling on the pajamas. 

Kory, bless her, even stays turned around. Not that she needs to. Not after how long they were together; how intimate they have always been. 

But Kory also knows that if she’d turned around, Dixie would have played up her character instead of showing her vulnerability. It’s happened often enough that she must be immune -- yet she stays turned around anyways, to allow Dixie to drop the act. 

Dixie wishes she knew how to thank her for it. 

Once she’s changed, she gets situated on the bed -- cross-legged with a pillow hugged to her chest. “I’m done.” 

Kory turns around -- and Dixie realizes that she’s gotten changed, too.

She’s so tall that one of Dixie’s nightgowns -- a well-meaning but too-proper gift from Bruce when she was fifteen -- is practically a shirt to her. At least she’s put on some shorts, even if the long shirt almost covers them. 

It looks like what Kory would wear early in their relationship. Back when she was trying to learn Earth standards and respect ‘decorum’ and ‘modesty’. It hadn’t taken long for her to adapt her own culture and preference for bare skin. It hadn’t taken Dixie long, either, before she learned to love Kory’s barely-there nightwear. 

Still. There’s something charming about seeing Kory in her clothes, even if these aren’t her style. 

To be fair, these aren’t fully Dixie’s style, either. Not anymore. They’re a bit pink for her tastes.

Kory sits on the bed next to her. She grabs a pillow of her own, but she doesn’t hold it as securely as Dixie does. It is not for her comfort -- merely to prop up her chest now that she’s ditched her bra. Dixie swallows. She wonders if it’s intentional. 

“How are you feeling?” Kory asks. “Do you need water? Something to eat?”

“I’m fine.” 

Kory sighs, but doesn’t press. Instead, she just looks at Dixie, the way her perfect makeup and hair do no justice to her real face. Her real face is lovely on its own. Not just bare, but also when she has been so caught up in a case that she hasn’t slept in three days. The sharpness in her cheeks not from a false diet of juices and vegetables, but from forgetting to eat when she is busy. Her perfect physique is from constant training and missions, and it is not nearly as intentional as they assume. And any plastic surgery she has had has been the result of injuries to her face -- not of luxury. The media has it wrong on every level.

Dixie would have been beautiful even without her lovely face and perfect figure, though. She's so intense -- no matter what face carried those eyes, they would always be the most piercing gaze Kory had ever been held captive to.

But though Dixie would have been beautiful regardless, the world had sharpened her beauty into a weapon. A tool to be used against her almost as often as Dixie has wielded it herself. 

“You don’t have to keep doing this, Dixie,” Kory finally says. “I hope you know that.” 

“I don’t think you understand what’s at stake.” Dixie sighs. “But you know why I do it. I have to keep all eyes off of Batman.” 

“And what is it you give up for him?”

“I don't give up anything. It’s my choice. It’s always been my choice.” 

Kory’s expression hardens. “I saw the footage from the first time you used yourself as a distraction. It did not look like much of a choice.” 

“I still chose it.” 

“Choices made when the alternative is the destruction of loved ones -- those are not _choices_.”

Dixie stiffens. “I didn’t mean it like that. I know what your sister did to you. But these aren’t the same. You were captured, tortured, enslaved -- I’m just-”

“I am _not_ comparing our situations,” Kory interrupts. 

Dixie looks up at her tone, eyes wide. 

“They are not the same situation, just as you said. There is no need for false equivalencies, because we went through _very_ different things.” Kory’s hands tighten into fists at her sides. Her powers, tied to emotion as ever, light up her hands -- but she takes a quick breath and the green light extinguishes just as quickly. “I am concerned for you for your own sake. Not because I am projecting or because I see myself in you. I’m concerned because you deserve to be concerned about. Am I not allowed to be worried?” 

Dixie finally breaks eye-contact. “Of course you are.” 

“Then let me be worried,” she says. She reaches forward, her warm hand reaching for Dixie’s silk sleeve. Gently, carefully, she pulls it back into place so it isn’t gaping over Dixie’s bare shoulder. “Are you sober enough to talk about this?”

Dixie nods. Barely reacts to the touch. “I was never that drunk.”

“You almost fell,” Kory says. “You never fall.” 

Bruce might have been the World’s Greatest Detective, but Kory was the emotional equivalent. Dixie still wonders, sometimes, if Tamaraneans have low-level empath powers, or if Kory is just special.

“Alright, so I was a little drunk.” Dixie reaches for the bottled water on her bedside, then takes a few slow sips. “Better?”

“It will be, in time.” 

Meaning she can’t change the subject, because Kory has a one-track-mind. Dixie sighs, pulls her knees to her chest. “You asked if I’m sober enough to talk,” she finally says. “I am. So talk.” 

“I’m worried for you.” 

“Yeah, you’ve already said so.” Dixie risks a look back into those startling green eyes. “I don’t need you to worry about me.” 

“That isn’t for you to decide.”

“We broke up, Kory. You aren’t supposed to be this invested.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” She looks so pained for a moment that Dixie wants to apologize; to make things right. But she can’t quite find the words. “Dix… You never even told me why we parted. You simply told me we were over and then vanished. How was I supposed to be anything but upset and worried?” 

“You were fine after a week.” 

“I am still not fine.” Kory reaches out for Dixie’s hand. Dixie lets her -- lets those warm, larger hands gently massage her smaller, more calloused ones. “I’ve missed you like I would have missed my heart, if it left without a word.” 

Dixie parts her lips. She wants to move closer and kiss her so badly. But that would cross a line. Sure, it was the line she’d drawn to separate them -- but it is a line nonetheless. 

“I miss you, too,” she says instead -- as though it isn’t breaking an equally solid barrier. “I’m sorry for how things ended.” 

“You still haven’t told me why, my love.” 

Dixie swallows. That nickname again. It could convince her to do almost anything -- a fact that Kory probably knows by now. “If I tell you…” She trails off. How can she explain that she’s afraid that Kory will forgive her and ask her to come back? How can she explain that she’s terrified she’ll say yes to that offer? 

“I will still respect your choice,” Kory says softly, because she’s always been able to read her. “I just wish to know what happened. Please. Let me in, Dixie. We were always meant to be friends, no matter how our relationship ended.” 

There is no reason Dixie can come up with to keep her secrets to herself. So she parts her lips, ready to tell her everything. 

She kisses Kory instead. 

For an instant, Kory returns her kisses. Dixie keeps her kisses soft, but she cannot deny how hungry she is for this affection -- and Kory has always been so good at feeding into that fire. 

Dixie has already looped her arms around Kory’s neck and made her way into her lap when Kory pulls back. 

“X’hal,” she swears -- and for an instant, Dixie thinks it’s her usual swears. The ones they use when they’re getting heated, passionate. 

But then she realizes that Kory is swearing at her for very different reasons. 

Kory is gentle -- but she pushes Dixie off her nonetheless. 

“Never do that again,” Kory says. 

Dixie swallows. “Kiss you?” she asks -- still playing innocent. "And here I thought-"

“No. Never, ever use that to distract me. We were having a conversation -- a conversation about us. You cannot simply…” Kory clenches her hands into fists. “I will not be treated as a distraction. I am worth more than that. We are worth more than that, together or apart.” 

Her hands only glow a little while she says it. Dixie knows it’s taking a lot of effort for her not to light Dixie’s sheets on fire. 

It’s probably the champagne talking, but there’s a thrill in that threat. She swallows down her desire anyways. 

“It wasn’t acting,” she says. “Not -- not all of it.” 

“I did not call this acting. I said it was a distraction. And neither of us are meant to be distractions, Dixie.” Kory moves forward, hands only a few degrees below searing. She tucks a lock of hair behind Dixie’s ear nonetheless, undoing half the work of curling her hair. “I am not distracted any longer. Tell me the reason that you decided to leave me.” 

Dixie wants to kiss her again. 

This time, for very different reasons. 

She takes a breath and leans back so she won’t give into temptation or impulse. 

“I couldn’t bring all of this back to you,” she says. “I -- I couldn’t risk hurting you.” 

“You hurt me when you left,” Kory says. “Tell me what you mean. What were you so afraid of sharing with me?” 

Dixie swallows. “Gotham.” 

Kory tilts her head to the side. Her lips part in a question -- but she stays quiet, giving Dixie time to gather her thoughts. As though she can really think when the most beautiful woman she’s ever met is on the edge of her bed. 

“Gotham,” Dixie says again. “I was scared of bringing this back to you. The galas and the -- the socialite personality. I was scared of being this with you.” 

“This as in, the teasing persona you adopt to protect your father.” Kory’s eyes narrow. “How would that have become a risk to me? You know I do not fall for any man’s advances. I would sooner incinerate someone than allow him to touch me.” 

“That’s why I had to break up with you!” 

Kory furrows her brows. 

“That’s why I broke up with you,” Dixie says again -- softer, this time. “You never let them get to you. You stood up for yourself. I knew how -- of course I knew how. But you made me forget why I was supposed to let it happen.” 

The room goes silent. Dixie knows that Kory does not understand -- not immediately. She recognizes that crinkle in her brow. But she doesn’t know how to elaborate further, and she also knows that Kory is the best person she knows about sorting through hard emotions. So she gives her time to sort it out for herself. 

Several minutes pass in silence. 

Dixie can feel her own mind racing from thought to thought. Jumping between every worst case scenario imaginable. 

But finally, Kory reaches for her hand again, and offers it a gentle squeeze. 

“You were never supposed to let it happen either,” she says quietly. “This was never supposed to become a long-term persona for you. Let alone your main Gotham socialite personality.” 

Dixie swallows. “But it is.” 

“Yes. It is,” Kory says. And then, the two sweetest words Dixie knows. “For now.” 

“Kory, I appreciate it, but it isn’t that easy to rebrand-” 

“You are aging out of Earth’s ideas of the perfect woman,” she says. “You are in your mid twenties rather than your early twenties. Though you are still in the prime of your life, the world does not see it as such. You are…” She trails off. “You are incredibly beautiful. But the world is seeing you as more mature and less easy to take advantage of. That is what comes with maturity, and part of why older women are seen as less sexy, yes?” 

Dixie furrows her brows -- gives her a guarded look. “Yes.” 

“Then with time alone, you will outgrow this image. Men like Brucie Wayne may be seen as playboys until they die. For women, this only lasts until they are in their thirties.” 

“That’s still another five years of this, Kor. And I never said I wanted to stop-”

“I said with time alone,” she softly interrupts. “Who says that you need only time on your side?” 

“Kory… This is my choice.” 

Kory gives her such a pitying look that Dixie wants to feel angry for it. She has never done well with pity, not even when she was first orphaned. But this is Kory. She feels compassion, not pity. She would never demean her, especially not for something that hurts them both. “It is a bad choice,” she finally says. “You have told me before that you are not infallible. This is proof enough. It is a mistake, Dixie. But it is one you do not have to keep making.” 

Dixie swallows. “Fine. So it’s a bad choice, and maybe it’s one I shouldn’t keep making. But what about the parts that I can’t choose to opt out of?”

And that is the sentence that breaks Kory. Because her expression crumbles, and she reaches out to cup Dixie’s face, her hand still warm with righteous anger. “I know. You cannot choose what others view you as -- you cannot choose to be an object of their desire,” she says. “But… You do not have to feed into it the way that you do. You make so many choices that ultimately hurt you, my love. I hate watching you suffer.” 

“That’s why we broke up,” Dixie says. “I didn’t -- I hated seeing you hurt.” 

“And you think that watching from afar is any better? Watching when I cannot interfere, cannot bring you home, away from all the vultures?” 

Dixie sighs through her nose. She leans into the touch, still not pulling away from the warm, soft hand against her cheek. “I thought you would get over it. Get over me.” 

“You greatly underestimate my love for you, Dixie Grayson.” Kory moves closer, until she is on her knees -- all exposed muscle and vibrant orange skin. “And you have hardly made it easy to move on. You think I didn’t notice when you checked in with all our friends? You asked them to take me places to get my mind off of you. Who does such a thing?” 

Dixie swallows, lips parting. “I…” 

“Even relocating to Gotham, I still see your face every day. You have not stayed out of the news -- not for one week. That is not a good sign, my love. You are hurting, destroying yourself -- and I only wish to help.” 

“I don’t know how you can.” 

Dixie finally pulls back. As much as she wants this -- wants Kory -- she can’t allow it. Can’t let herself be pulled in. Not with the Mission at stake. Batman has trained her far too well. Her happiness isn’t even second to the Mission. It’s not even third, or fourth, or fifth. Dixie doesn’t know how low she ranks it, but she knows it isn’t something she can prioritize. Not even when it hurts Kory, too. 

“I love you too much to let you keep doing this to yourself,” Kory continues. She doesn’t reach for Dixie again -- something that either helps or hurts, though she doesn’t know which. “Please. Let me take you away from this. You don’t have to keep suffering it. Especially not suffering alone. No one wants to see you like this.” 

Dixie lets out an ironic snort. “The tabloids would beg to differ. Every time I show up drunk on the front page, they get ten thousand dollars apiece. I’m pretty sure I single-handedly saved the Gotham Gazette.”

“There are people who matter far more than the tabloids,” Kory ays sharply. “I know it seems impossible -- but we do not have to keep limiting ourselves. Just because there are dozens of vultures downstairs who make you an object of gossip does not mean you should give them a story. Just because millions of men would devour you in an instant given the chance, doesn’t mean that you must act like food.” 

“So you’re saying it’s my fault?” Dixie knows she shouldn’t be picking this fight. Knows that she does, in fact, create stories. But she also knows that Kory knows that -- knows what she does for Batman. She can’t imagine a possibility where Kory knows this truth and yet blames her anyways.

Kory just gives her a sympathetic, if frustrated, look.

“I’m saying,” she says, soft and patient, “That they’re going to behave the way that they choose, yes. Of course they choose to behave like wolves. But I’m also saying that you can choose to separate yourself from them -- that acting like a socialite isn’t helping you, or your mission, nearly as much as you think.” 

There is silent in the room. Dixie shifts uncomfortably -- but Kory doesn’t let her off the hook. Doesn’t try to change the subject. Instead, she stares her down with those bright, unearthly green eyes. Finally, she sighs. “What is it you want me to say, Kor? When it’s my choice to act like this, it’s easier. I can’t get angry for what happens -- it’s my own responsibility, which means I know what outcome to expect. I have a lot more control over my identity this way.” 

“It doesn’t sound like control,” Kory said. “They make decisions and you pretend it’s what you wanted all along, just because you know the outcome before it happens? No. That is defeatism. That is pessimism and cynicism and giving up, and you are better than that.”

“Kory, I’m too tired for this.” Dixie pulls her legs up to her chest, looking small -- especially compared to the massive alien warrior sharing the other half of her bed. “Not tonight. Please.”

Kory sighs. It’s clear she doesn’t want to overstep, but she nearly bites through her tongue while trying to hold back. “I know you don’t want to talk about this,” she says, slow and uncertain. “But if not tonight, when?” 

Dixie doesn’t answer, because the answer is ‘never.’ She looks away. 

“Then may I tell you something?” 

There are too many paths that this conversation can take, with a question like that. “I don’t know if I’m the best audience if it’s - if it’s about the Citadel,” Dixie admits. “At least not right now. I feel sick off the champagne already -- I’d feel awful if you brought up those memories and I was too drunk to hear you.”

“It is not about that,” Kory says, face setting in a grim line. She softens it a beat too late; Dixie has already seen that haunted look by the time she schools it back to a more neutral expression. “...But thank you for your compassion.”

Dixie reaches for her water, then downs another few sips. “I’m listening. Jus’ make sure you want to talk about this now, when I’m useless, as opposed to…” She makes a vague gesture with her hand, but Kory knows what she means. She always does.

Kory nods. She tucks a lock of fiery hair behind her ear-- quite literally fiery, lit up with her nervousness. It’s beautiful; Dixie can’t help but watch as the long strands change colors as smoothly as fire itself.

For a moment, she forgets why they broke up. Forgets why she would ever deny the beautiful woman in front of her anything.

But she can’t forget for long. Not when Kory starts to speak.

“Do you remember,” Kory says, careful and slow, “That modeling scandal two years ago? Where the artistic directors were trying to coerce sex from the models?”

“Which one? Hollywood’s full of entitled misogynists.” 

Kory smiles, but faintly, and only for a moment. “The one with _my_ director.” 

Dixie’s lighthearted demeanor immediately breaks. For an instant, she thinks that Kory is about to tell her something too private. But then she remembers exactly what Kory is referring to. “He didn’t hurt you,” she says. “Right?” 

“Correct. And they tried to use that as leverage, to dismiss the rest of the girls’ claims. Do you remember what I did after?” 

How could she not? 

_(The Evening Show -- Hollywood Dish session. Kory was in something elegant but comfortable, and making the couch her own._

_“-Alright, now for our last question of the evening… I know you’ve been asked about this plenty, but who would we be if we didn’t get the real dish?”_

_Kory’s expression had gone from chipper to serious in an instant. “Beinstein’s allegations,” she said. “Do you believe that my answer will change just because this is a new environment? I believe every single woman who has allegations against him.”_

_“But not Beinstein himself? Even though he never put a hand on you?”_

_Kory raised a brow. Then, she summoned a starbolt into her hand. Not as a threat -- just for show, but the talk show host had paled nonetheless. “I have the power to summon the heat and light of the stars themselves. Do you really think that an average human would try to pressure me --_ **me** _\-- into anything?”_

_The host swallowed audibly. “Alright, next question-”_

_“No, I think we will stay on this,” Kory said. “Beinstein did not touch me, but there were men who did, before I got my powers. I am currently afforded protection that human women do not have. But that doesn’t mean I cannot recognize the danger they face.”_

_The host whistled lowly. “That’s quite the bombshell, Koriand’r. I’d love to ask about-”_

_Kory continued over him, as though he hadn’t spoken at all. She looked directly into the camera. “I will not be used as a prop or a distraction. Your world can view me as an ‘unearthly hot’ supermodel, and dress me in lingerie as though I do not know what it means, and pay me for it. I have agreed to it, though it is silly you think me this naive. But do not expect me to stick to the ‘non political’ side of things, or give favorable answers to powerful men. I am the crown princess on the planet Tamaran. And on my planet, such offenses are punishable by death. Unfortunately, my vigilante justice here is limited to attacking supervillains, and even then I do not kill. But I will say this -- I hope Beinstein rots in jail for the rest of his miserable years.”_

_With that said, she dipped her head in a bow to the camera, and walked off stage a full five minutes before her time was up. )_

When Dixie had seen that on TV, she had felt equal parts overwhelmingly heartsick for her girlfriend, and so proud that she thought her chest would burst. 

“I remember,” she says, and reaches for Kory’s hand. “What about it? Why bring it up now?” 

“I started talking about it more often. Even when people did not ask me about it, I mentioned it intentionally, until they stopped inviting me on talk shows. I made my opinions very, _very_ clear. Then, I offered my services to act as an escort to human women who did not feel comfortable going to sets without protection.” She pauses. “Some of them even took me up on it. That is also when I started coming to every single one of your galas, Dixie. Whether you invited me or not.” 

Dixie furrows her brows.

She has half a mind to ask if that is why she was there tonight -- even when they had broken up months ago. She’d been too drunk to really think about it earlier, but now it makes her head spin. She doesn’t feel gross at the realization, the way a stalking would. It just leaves her feeling uncomfortably vulnerable. Hopeful, in all the worst ways. 

“Kory… What are you asking?”

“I am asking nothing. Only making an -- an offer,” Kory says. Almost flustered. “But no, that is not the main point. The point is that prior to that point, I had stayed quiet, because I was still adapting to Earth culture and did not want to offend. After that, I realized I had the power to help, even beyond knocking out rapists’ teeth on San Francisco patrols.” 

Dixie flinches at the word. 

“Sorry,” she says quickly. Her cheeks burn, but Kory doesn’t mock her for it. “It’s nothing.” 

The look on Kory’s face is so heartbreaking that Dixie wishes she could erase all of it. But Kory doesn’t belabor the point, either. “You don’t need to talk about it, my love,” she says. “I know it can be personal--” 

“I’m not going to talk about it with you because it’s not your fault.” She hesitates. There is no better time than now. “...Not even if it happened when we were together.” 

Dixie says it before she can stop herself. 

She puts her knees to her chest. Presses her forehead to her knees, ignoring how her caked on makeup and brows stain her silk pajamas. 

Kory, for all her fire and warmth, freezes across from her. It takes her several beats of silence to recover. Even when she does, she sounds like ice. “...What happened? Was it…?” 

“It wasn’t you, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

Kory lets out a breath. Though she can’t recall anything like what Dixie had said, there is still that fear in the back of her mind. The fear that she could ever do something so evil as what was done to her, as what is done to so many women even on this planet. But then her good sense kicks in, because just because it wasn’t her, doesn’t mean she is off the hook. 

How could she not have known? 

But then, Dixie was always so distant with her. Always keeping her at arm’s length about the deeper hurts; the things that really kept her up at night. Kory knew good and well that it wasn’t just cases that kept her mind racing at three in the morning. 

“If not me, then who?” 

“You didn’t know him.” Dixie’s face darkens. “Hopefully you never will.” 

“He had better hope I never do.” Kory’s expression is flat and perfectly murderous. When she realizes that her anger is not helping anything, she takes a slow inhale, then tries to breathe out her anger. “I’m sorry. I will stay cool-headed. For you. ...But Dixie. If we were together… how could you not tell me?” 

Dixie avoids her gaze. “Because it’s exactly what you worried would happen.” 

_One of Bruce’s business partners. An entitled misogynist who wanted to pressure her into sex, to pressure her into a better deal with Wayne Enterprises by belittling her. She'd been more focused on getting him thrown in prison for white collar crimes; she hadn't paid nearly enough attention to his personal interest in her.  
_

_No. That wasn't right. She knew about his personal interest in her. But she'd used it to get close to him. To get close enough to ask questions about his finances. His business._

_She’d caught him on sixteen accounts of embezzling. He was in jail, but not for his worst crime._

_“I have a girlfriend,” she’d said- In Bruce’s office. Without backup. Alone. Tried for a flirtatious tone, but she knew he could hear the tremor in her voice._

_“Bring her in, it’ll be a real party.” He’d laughed. “Or was that you trying to let me down easy, you little tease?”_

_He’d kissed her and pinned her up against Bruce’s desk before she had a chance to say no._

_She wanted to tackle him to the ground. But years and years of training as the perfect debutante worked against her now. She was rooted to the spot -- and worse, even as her hands shook, she was trying to play-act that she wanted it._

_“I-- I don’t think we sh-,” she started. “Bruce would… If he knew we were here...”_

_“You’ve been giving me the runaround for years, Dix.” He took hold of her jaw then tilted it up for a kiss. Even as her hands balled into fists, she couldn’t break character. Couldn’t pull away. "But I always did love a challenge."_

Dixie looks down at the duvet below her. The pillow in her lap. Kory’s pajamas, which were really Dixie’s pajamas. She walks herself through finding two other tangible things she can ground herself with. Kory’s hair. The fake flowers on her bedside, because she can’t keep the real things alive. 

Her room smells like lavender. 

She can hear music from the party downstairs. 

Dixie lets out a slow breath, back to reality once more. 

Kory looks beyond worried. “Are you here?” she asks, soft and uncertain. 

“Never left.” Dixie hugs the pillow to her chest. “Can we… not talk about this?” 

Though it looks like Kory wants to argue, she nods anyways. “Do you want me to leave you for the night?” 

Dixie bites her lip, hard enough to draw blood. 

Kory stands up while Dixie is still deciding. “I should go,” she finally says, saving Dixie from having to tell her to leave. It has always been far easier to ask her to stay than to ask her to leave -- she will not make this harder on her than it has to be. 

Dixie dips her head towards her lap. Doesn’t ask her to stay. 

It might break Kory’s heart to leave her, but it would break far worse things to stay. Still, she pauses in the doorway. “Would you like me to keep coming to galas?” 

Dixie flicks her eyes up to Kory’s. “Would you really stop, knowing what might happen if you aren’t here?” 

There is pain in Kory’s eyes. “That is not an answer, Dixie,” she says -- patient, always patient. “I will respect whichever you choose. Even if it pains me to watch you self-destruct.” 

Dixie doesn’t answer immediately. 

Kory waits for a full thirty seconds. Then, she starts to close the door. 

“Yes,” Dixie says. Just in time for Kory to hear. “Keep coming. Please.” 

“I will.”

With that, she closes the door. Dixie is left alone with her thoughts and her ghosts. 


	3. Chapter 3

When Dixie awakes, there is an ache in her head so strong that she thinks, for an instant, that it’s the pounding bass of a club. 

Has she fallen asleep at a party again? 

When she opens her eyes, the light is blinding. Suffocatingly bright -- she can barely squint.

There’s water on her nightstand though, and pain medication. That means this was a planned hangover. Which means -- 

Yes. She’s in Wayne Manor. 

She sees her dress on the floor and remembers foggy details. Drinking glass after glass of champagne, until… Until…

The space on her bed is blessedly empty. She can’t recall a thing -- she hopes it’s been empty all night. That no one came and left before she woke. 

It’s happened before -- he uploaded it onto instagram, and the tabloids had taken it from there. Bragging rights. Probably wasn’t worth being cut off from Wayne Enterprises for the rest of his life, though. 

Dixie takes a slow, deep breath, then convinces herself that even if it has happened again, that she can handle it. All she can control this moment is drinking the water on her nightstand and sitting up. 

That’s when she realizes she’s in pajamas. 

Relief floods her the instant it clicks. If anyone had touched her, been with her, then she would have been naked, wouldn’t she? But the pajamas themselves...

She hasn’t worn these in ages, and she highly doubts she would have chosen to wear them if she’d been drunk enough to black out like this. She’s famously bad at getting into pajama pants when intoxicated, and rarely wears them anyways. So why is she in them?

Dixie frowns. 

Only a few people know even where she keeps her pajamas. 

Did Bruce have to help her? Her cheeks flush at the thought. She’s a grown woman; Bruce hasn’t had to help her into bed -- barring life threatening injury -- since she was a child. If he had, she owes him a thousand apologies. 

Not to mention she’ll have to apologize for _why_ he had to help her. Dixie doesn’t want to know the scene she must have made last night. Anything that could take Brucie Wayne away from his own party must be a tabloid crisis. And a tabloid crisis that will be Dixie’s responsibility to fix. 

Her head is killing her. She can’t fix it when she only feels half alive. 

She pops another two tylenol and downs the rest of the water. It still doesn’t help immediately, but maybe by the time she gets to the kitchen, she’ll feel a little more human. At least the kitchen is close.

Though she doesn’t often drink coffee -- and she knows hangovers are caused by dehydration, so drinking a dehydrating beverage won’t help -- she knows that this morning, she’ll be useless without it. So she pours herself a cup and a half in the tallest glass she can find. It’s lukewarm; she doesn’t even bother to heat it up. 

She’s drained it and is about to pour herself a second cup when she hears it. A rustle of fabric. She jumps -- someone is in the kitchen with her. 

Dixie tenses immediately. 

If it’s Vicki Vale after a hookup with Brucie, Dixie is dead meat. She’s used to being meat, period, but if she tries to give an interview when her brain is this fried, she'll be ripped to shreds, Bruce will have to kill what’s left of her. Still, she can’t just ignore her. Them. Whoever it is. So she takes a breath to brace herself. Maybe she’ll get lucky for once; maybe the coffee is already hard at work; maybe her neurons are already firing at full speed again. 

Unlikely.

Dixie turns around with her best socialite smile and a good morning halfway onto her tongue. 

But Vicki Vale is nowhere to be seen. It’s only Cass. 

Dixie’s shoulders immediately relax. She leans back against the counter, fake smile dropping, replaced by a crooked, and far more genuine one. “You startled me,” Dixie accuses. “But good morning to you, too.” 

Cass grins. Dixie had forgotten how much she liked sneaking up on people. Especially other bats. Dixie just knows that Cass is filing this away as an accomplishment.

“Just to set the record straight,” she says, pretending to put up a fight, “I woke up two minutes ago. I’m not in gear, and I’m not on a case. It doesn’t count. You’ll have to get your stealth points somewhere else.” 

Cass’s grin doesn’t fade in the slightest. Instead, she laughs, hiding her smile behind her hand. Then, she signs, ‘ _It counts as long as I don’t tell B you’re...'_ She pauses, squinting as she tries to remember the sign for it. Then she shakes her head and finger-spells, _'h-u-n-g-o-v-e-r._ ’

Dixie snorts. “I think he’ll suspect. No one’s got the jump on me in years.” 

Cass smiles, mischief in her eyes. _‘Protects you the more I do it, then.’_ At Dixie’s puzzled face, she adds, _‘Keeps you on your toes.’_

It’s probably a joke. But even so, Dixie can tell Cass means it. Her heart melts a little. Bruce was right to take her in, no matter her questionable past. She’s more than just a diamond in the rough. She’s so remarkably, unmistakably _good_. 

It’s hard to believe that less than a year ago, she was an assassin. Harder still to know that in the same time frame, Cass was still receiving scars from her biological father. Still training to be nothing more than a weapon. 

That Cass could choose to make her own destiny, when she had never been shown another way… Dixie can’t even describe how much it means to her. How much it restores her faith in people. 

It’s too early to have those thoughts, though, no matter how her heart hurts, and no matter how proud she is of Cass. So Dixie shakes her head to clear her mind. -And oh, _god_ , that’s a bad move -- she’s actually _dizzy_. She rubs at her forehead. “...How long have you been up?” 

Cass shrugs. Then, she leans forward, elbow on the table and cheek resting against her hand. There’s a question in her eyes and a tilt to her smile -- Dixie knows she’s asking what’s going on with her. 

Dixie glances down at herself again. The pajamas aren’t the issue -- but then she remembers how much of a mess her face must be. She doubts she washed her makeup off last night. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a mess,” she admits. “I’m happier _not_ knowing what I look like right now, thanks. Don’t go holding up any mirrors. But it’s fine. I don’t have to be pretty as long as it’s just us.” The statement seems to make Cass happy, so Dixie counts it as a win. Then, Dixie glances at the remains of Cass’s breakfast. “Anything you want me to get you while I’m by the fridge? Milk? OJ? Coffee?” 

Cass nods as soon as she says orange juice, so Dixie gets into the fridge to pull out the half-empty bottle. She carefully pours a glass, her hangover not so bad that she can’t manage pouring a single cup of juice. Still, it’s by sheer willpower that she pulls it away before it overflows. 

Unfortunately, carrying it over to her is another matter. Dixie’s the most graceful person in the room, no matter what room she's in -- but this morning, she barely feels like a person at all. 

She still manages to carry the coffee and orange juice in both hands. But halfway through, she remembers that she wants this second cup of coffee to be _warm_. The thought almost sends her to the microwave halfway through her journey, and she stops in the middle of the kitchen, brain firing out too many requests at once. If she was even slightly more herself, she’d be embarrassed of the lag. As it is, she finds herself squinting into the distance trying to remember what her goal is. 

Cass, bless her, doesn’t say (or sign) a word. (She rarely does, anyways -- but she _could_ , and doesn’t, and that’s what makes all the difference.) Instead, she hops up from her seat. She meets Dixie halfway into the kitchen, then extends a hand. 

Dixie starts to hand her the coffee. 

Cass raises her brows. Then, she gently takes both away from Dixie. 

Dixie squints again. Whatever she was trying to do, it wasn’t that. But before she can take her coffee back, Cass puts it into the microwave and sets it for one minute. 

Oh. 

Dixie manages a grateful smile, though it comes out more of a grimace. She puts her coffee into the microwave, and thanks the universe that Cass isn’t the mean spirited type. 

The kitchen is silent until the beep-beep- _beep_ of the microwave. Dixie pulls it out, unbothered by the sting of heat on the handle. 

She moves to sit on the countertop, like she always has. Even if she’s no longer a four foot nothing Robin, she’s not particularly tall. 

A part of her is glad that Cass is even shorter than she is, and is likely to stay that way. Five-one to her five-four -- which means Dixie will never be the shortest again. When she sits up on the countertop, Dixie is a full head taller than Cass. Dixie swings her legs freely, clearly inviting her up. And yet, Cass doesn’t hop up to join her. Only stares dubiously up at her. 

_‘Chairs are for sitting, not countertops,’_ she signs.

“Let me guess… Alfred told you that.” When Cass hesitantly nods, Dixie grins. “Don’t worry. It’s not a real rule, like _‘don’t bleed on the ivory rugs’_ is.” She imitates his accent, and it’s a damn good job. Not just the British inflections, but the way his voice has been softened by American pronunciation for the last thirty odd years. “The countertop one is just a … a British thing. We aren’t getting them dirty, so he can’t really mind it.”

Cass actually giggles. Then, despite that lingering hesitation in her eyes -- that desire to do everything right and stay welcome here -- Cass hops up onto the countertop. There’s the tiniest look of rebellion and childish glee in her eyes -- and Dixie feels like a _real_ older sister. 

Cass takes a sip from her orange juice, looking out onto the rest of the kitchen. _‘Taller,’_ she signs. Then, something across the room catches her eye and she squints. _‘...Alfred put my favorite snacks on top of the fridge?’_

Dixie has to cover her mouth to keep in the undignified snort of laughter. When Cass grins even wider, she lets it out. “He did that with me when I was your age, too. Didn’t work for very long.” 

_‘Acrobatics or growth spurt?’_

“I appreciate that you think I’m tall enough for that,” Dixie says with a grin. “The only thing that changed is I got brave enough to break Alfred’s rules. You feeling brave yet, Cass?” 

Cass bites the inside of her cheek, and Dixie realizes the answer to that is ‘no.’ Or at least, she’s not quite brave enough to break rules without the support of a sister. Dixie knows how hard it is, the first few years of being adopted. Cass has it worse, considering the abuse she came out. At least Dixie had relative faith in people. Cass had only ever known David Cain for the first fifteen years of her life. Cass must be worried that any violation of a rule will send her back onto the street. 

That's why breaking the rules is so important. Once you break a few and realize that you're still welcome, that the Manor is still your home, then you can finally be yourself.

Dixie gently knocks her shoulder against her sister’s. “I’ll get them for you. If Alfred asks, it’s my fault.” 

With that, she stands -- stands! -- on top of the countertop, steps carefully over Cass, and makes it to the top of the fridge. By the time she gets there, she’s almost forgotten how hungover she is. All she can think of is the smile on her sister’s face when she tosses the bag of … protein bites? -- at Cass. 

Cass catches it easily, absolutely beaming at her. 

Dixie goes back to where she was sitting next to her. She nearly -- nearly -- steps in her cup of coffee, but Cass moves it out of the way just in time. 

“You’re a lifesaver,” Dixie says, and carefully moves to sit down again. On her way down though, her hangover leaves her half a step off balance. She realizes, almost too late, that she’s going to fall if she tries to sit back down. So she chooses her next best move, and jumps down instead. 

Cass is still staring at her when Dixie lands and rights herself. There’s no denying the worry in her eyes. But when a beat passes and Dixie hasn’t fallen or complained of a twisted ankle, when Dixie is standing fully upright and balanced easily on the ground, she lifts her hands to sign.

 _‘...Countertops are for sitting, but not standing,’_ Cass decides. 

Embarrassed as she is, Dixie can’t help but laugh. 

“On any other day, I could do handsprings off of them.” 

“And why not today?” 

Dixie whirls around at the sound of another voice in the kitchen, and she winces at the volume. She hadn’t realized how nice it was that Cass was only _signing_. 

Bruce leans against the kitchen island. He’s got a gatorade in his hand, and he extends it towards Dixie. She eyes it for a moment, before hesitantly taking it. 

“From the looks of things,” Dixie says as she unscrews it and takes a long sip, “You know exactly why.” 

“I’ve got evidence enough from last night.” He pauses, then looks her over, glancing between Dixie and Cass. There’s something he isn’t asking, and whatever it is, Cass is the only reason he isn’t demanding answers. Instead, he walks forward, leans against the countertop Cass is sitting on. “What are you doing up here?”

Cass tenses. And Dixie realizes she’s uncomfortable now that _Bruce_ has seen her breaking a rule. 

“It was my idea,” Dixie says, her tone only a little bit challenging. The kind of tone she used when she was sixteen and breaking rules herself. “I told her how nice it is to feel tall.” 

Cass actually flushes. _‘...The view is different,’_ she signs. Her motions are a little stiff, a little tense. But at least she’s not just sitting there, anxious and overlooked. _‘If I were always this tall, I’d never sit down.’_

Bruce actually laughs. Then, he goes on his toes to press a kiss against Cass’s forehead. It’s only a little bit aggravating that he can still reach, even when she’s perched on the countertop. Damn tall people. “Good morning to you too, Cass. I won’t tell Alfred you got into the protein bites again.”

Cass bites down on her smile, then hides the bag behind her back. 

Dixie can tell Cass feels as though she’s interrupted something. But Bruce is the one who just arrived; Cass was here first. So Dixie moves right back next to her sister. Anything to protect her, keep her feeling welcome.

“We were just talking about how Cass’s stealth is getting better,” Dixie says, and loops an arm around her shoulder. “She could sneak up on anyone these days.” 

“She always could,” Bruce says. “You don’t give her enough credit if the only time you mention it is when you’re so hungover you can barely walk.” 

Dixie scowls at him. 

Cass places Dixie’s coffee mug back in her lap. Then, _‘I bet I can scare her next time we’re in the cave.’_

Bruce hums. Without a word, he takes Dixie’s mug, then presses the gatorade back in her hands. He ignores Dixie when she opens her mouth to protest, instead _taking a sip of her coffee_ and continuing, “You’re setting yourself at a disadvantage, giving her warning.” 

_‘That’s the fun part.’_

“No one was ganging up on me like this a minute ago,” Dixie complains. “Bruce, get out, this was a girls’ morning. It’s way more fun planning how Cass is going to scare you.” 

Bruce takes another sip of his stolen coffee. “We’ll see. Thirteen years together and even you haven’t managed it, Dixie.”

“Cass is sneakier.” Dixie turns to Cass and gives her an expectant look. “My only wish is that when you sneak up on him, you’re recording it. I want to hear the official Bat-scream. Tim and I have a bet -- I think it'll be high pitched and girly, he thinks it'll be a growl.”

That puts a thoughtful look on Cass’s face. She rubs at her chin, takes a sip of her OJ. Then, ‘Jason was right… it is you who put ‘bat’ in front of everything.’

It startles a laugh from even Bruce.

From there, the trio talk for another half hour. Cass only leaves when Alfred comes by, conveniently hopping down from the counter at just the right second, leaving only Dixie to take the heat for breaking his rule. 

Dixie smiles behind her (now half empty) bottle of gatorade. Her little sister is getting the hang of this sibling thing. 

Once Alfred leaves though, Dixie and Bruce are left alone.

His entire demeanor changes. Gone is the doting father of two girls. In his place stands the Bruce who Dixie picked fights with from ages fifteen to…

Well. She’s not sure she ever really stopped. 

“You got out of hand last night,” he says. “Again.” 

If he’s going to be like this, Dixie isn’t going to play nice, either. “And here it fucking comes,” she says. “You’re lucky you’re only this much of an asshole around me.” 

“Alfred would disagree with you.” 

“And yet, he sticks around.” Dixie takes another sip, wincing at the taste. “Yellow is objectively the worst flavor. Would it kill you to stock up on red?” 

“Consider it your punishment.” Bruce sighs. He rubs his forehead, and Dixie wonders if it’s another concussion from patrol, or if he got into the champagne last night, too. Or if she’s just that much of a headache for him. “It’s one thing to do this on your own time. But this is getting out of hand.” 

“You think I get wasted on my own time?” 

“I don’t know what you got up to in San Francisco with your… friends.” He hesitates on the word, and Dixie knows he means Kory. Her face hardens. “It was a convenient outlet when you returned -- a good cover story for the press. But you’re one step from crossing the line.”

“Oh, so when it’s convenient for me to act like an alcoholic, you let it slide, but when I’m at the risk of actually becoming one-”

“For god’s sake, Dixie, _yes_.” Bruce’s voice raises half a decibel. Not wanting to shout or wake any other late sleepers around the house -- and oh. Is Tim here? -- he lets out a slow sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose again, and when he opens his mouth, his voice is back to a normal speaking voice. “I can’t tell if you have a problem or not. Stop making this difficult. This is just me asking.” 

Dixie slams her jaw shut, tensing. “No,” she finally says, through gritted teeth. “I don’t have a fucking problem.” 

“Okay,” Bruce says. Measured. Even. "You don't have a problem. That's good." Then, it's like a flip is switched, “If you don’t have a problem, then what the hell do you think you’re doing, getting that trashed at a gala?” he snaps. Dixie tenses. “We’ve talked about your persona before, but this -- this is every gala for the last six months, Dixie. Not even the loosest upper crust acts like that every time.” 

“Maybe I love it,” she says. “Maybe I like the attention.” 

“I got six complaints from Gotham upper crust that you were _ignoring_ them. If you’re not even getting attention from them, then-” 

“I didn’t say I wanted attention from them,” she says. Flippantly, like she doesn’t mind the idea of old, handsy bastards asking about her. “Shame Vicki Vale wasn’t there last night. I would’ve given her a scoop. Kept your late-evening disappearance out of the papers.” 

Bruce’s jaw flexes. “I didn’t patrol last night. If you weren’t completely wasted, maybe you’d know that.” 

Dixie looks down at her tightly-fisted hands. She sees her silk pajamas again. “You didn’t have to skip patrol just to get me to my room.” 

“I would have, if it meant you didn’t end up with Carl Livingston in your bed instead.” Bruce pauses. “Besides, I didn’t have to.” 

Dixie frowns, brows furrowing. 

“You don’t even remember Koriand’r?” 

And oh. 

Dixie’s heart skips a beat. Her hands shake, just a little, as she screws the cap back on her gatorade. She hops off the counter, stalking past Bruce. “Then I wasn’t even an inconvenience to you last night. So you can drop it.” 

“Dixie,” Bruce says -- using his Batman voice and everything. He reaches around and grabs her by the shoulder, spinning her back around. “We aren’t dropping this. Not this time. What happened to make Kory steal you away?” 

Dixie tenses under his hand. “Let go of me.” 

“Were you drugged?” he asks, ignoring her. “Did someone put something in your drink?” 

“ _Let go of me._ ” 

This time, Bruce does. He lets out a heavy sigh. “Just answer me, Dixie. What happened?” 

“If I remembered, maybe I’d tell you. But I don’t.” It’s only half true. She remembers parts of the evening. Someone propositioning her for marriage again, trying to integrate into the Wayne family fortune. Before that, having a champagne or two with business partners who didn’t take her seriously, and who stared a little too obviously down her dress. 

Nothing out of the usual there. Nothing worth mentioning. 

Bruce must realize she’s not going to tell him a damn thing. So he sighs. 

“Fine,” he finally says. “Then you can tell me what happened six months ago to start all this.” 

Dixie flexes her jaw and pointedly looks away. “That’s none of your-” 

“You came back to Gotham. Why?”

“You adopted Cass. I wanted to get to know her.” 

“You didn’t act like this with Tim or Jason.” 

Dixie shrugs a shoulder. “People change. Can I go now? Or are you going to use your Batman voice on me some more?” 

“This isn’t a game, Dixie!” He raises his voice again -- Bruce has never been one to talk in circles or let someone avoid his questions for long. It’s what makes him such an effective interrogator. 

Any other day, Dixie would have just left. She’s not going to be interrogated in her childhood home. 

But today, she’s tired. She’s tired, she’s hungover, and she doesn’t even remember Kory taking her to bed last night. Doesn’t even remember why Kory was there in the first place. 

“Don’t you think I don’t know that?” she snaps. “I’ve never done this for _fun_ , Bruce.” 

“Then what the hell are you doing it for? It’s not like when you were young -- We have plenty of safeguards for our secret identities now! No one has tried to put Batman and Bruce Wayne together in over a year -- not even Vicki Vale! I’ve looked into every avenue, every reason you might be destroying yourself, and there is nothing. No evidence I can find. So tell me -- if not for fun, then _why are you doing this?_ ” 

“Because I _have to_.” 

“I’m telling you you don’t-”

“If I don’t, then they’re going to start noticing Cass.” 

Bruce shuts up faster than she’s ever seen. He’s silent for a beat. Then, in his most forcibly impartial voice: “Explain.”

“She’s exactly as old as I was when it started.” Dixie tightens her hands into fists. “And she’s good, Bruce. She’s such a good kid. She’ll already do anything for you and for this family. If she thinks, for even one second, that this is what’s expected of her…” 

“And you’re setting quite the example, aren’t you?” 

“Not with how disappointed in me you are.” Dixie balls her hands into fists, but avoids his eyes. “And it’s not about you, either. It’s about them -- the vultures in Gotham. A few people know Cass exists. But no one’s gotten a picture of her. No one’s seen her sign, no one’s heard anything about her. They don’t even know how old she is, what she looks like, where she comes from. She’s _safe_.”

Bruce frowns. 

“And you want to know why no one’s started digging deeper?” she asks. “Because I’m a distraction. Every time someone starts to ask a question about Cass, I pull a stunt. That’s always been my role, B. Even as Robin. You take out the big guns, I keep their attention.” 

He’s silent for a beat. Absorbing her words, absorbing the first honest thing she’s said all day. “You aren’t Robin anymore,” he finally says. “And she isn’t, either.” 

“Not for long, knowing this family.” 

“Dixie.” Bruce’s voice is gentler this time, and Dixie hates it. Hates to compassion he’s using to mask the pity, or the disgust, or the disappointment he’s really feeling. “This isn’t the way to protect her. She avoids galas and the press as it is.”

“So did I.” 

Bruce’s shoulders slump. “Cass is never going to have to do what you did, Dixie. I wouldn’t let her even if she tried.” 

“Funny. You thought you could stop me once, too.” 

The kitchen goes silent for a while. Dixie starts to wonder how long this standoff will last; starts to wonder who’s going to break first. But she doesn't want to hear the end of this conversation. She doesn’t want to be here. So she looks away, and takes a few steps back. 

“Dixie-” 

She holds up a hand to cut him off. “I want you to drop it, Bruce. You know my reasons now. Which means you also know that I’m capable of seeing this through.” Her voice turns bitter, and she adds, “Besides. I know what I’m good at.” 

Bruce’s face turns pained. “You’re meant for so much more than this, Dix.” 

“Never said I wasn’t.” 

She’s almost home free, almost out of the kitchen, when Bruce finally has the wherewithal to say, “Kory wants to see you, before she flies home.” 

And Dixie stops dead in her tracks. “...Thanks for passing on the message.” 

“Will you be talking to her, or should I tell her to leave?” 

“I’ll…” Dixie trails off. She’s ready to say no. Ready to say yes. Ready to say anything if it will free her from this conversation. But she can’t find it in her to make any choice at all. “We’ll see.” 

Bruce pauses a beat. Then, “She’s been at every gala since you split those months ago,” he says, pointedly. “She’ll probably be at the next one, too.” 

“I didn’t ask her to come.” 

“Neither did I.” 

Dixie rubs at her aching head. “Then why is she here?” 

“She never wanted this for you either. I don’t think anyone who knows you wants this for you. We’re…” He trails off. “We’re worried. Just keep that in mind. Please.” 


	4. Chapter 4

Kory is on the third floor, in the East Wing guest room. One floor above Dixie’s, and on the other side of the house. Enough space that Kory could have easily left without seeing Dixie at all if that’s what either of them had wanted. 

Dixie stands outside her ex’s room. 

She’s showered and changed and had something to eat, so she feels a little more herself. But there’s an ache in her chest that won’t let her be anywhere but here. Even then, it only gets stronger when she finally knocks on the door. 

It has to get worse before it gets better.

There is movement from inside. Dixie takes a step back, half convinced to leave and come back later, before Kory can open the door. But she’s never been a coward. So she takes a breath and stays. 

Kory opens the door just before Dixie can regret her decision. 

“Dixie?” 

“Would anyone else have knocked?” 

“Bruce,” Kory says easily. She runs a hand through her slightly messy hair, movement raising her shirt. It doesn’t show skin -- only the proof that she’s wearing shorts underneath. Dixie can’t help but notice that this is  _ her  _ shirt. More proof that Kory was the one who put her to bed last night. Dixie’s face warms, wondering just what happened. “...How are you feeling?”

Dixie crosses her arms over her chest. “Slightly hungover. A little confused. And very concerned about why you’ve been coming to every single one of my galas for the last six months.” 

“The first two months of that, we were dating.” 

“I didn’t even know you were there for most of them.” 

“Technically, they were Bruce’s Galas, and I’m a well known interplanetary ambassador. I’m a Princess, it’s not as though I’m out of sorts here.” 

Dixie gives her a flat stare. 

Koriand’r sighs. “I was worried about you. Even when we were still together, you were starting to have a downward turn. I tried to bring it up with you, but you did not listen.” Kory tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. She looks, at the very least, embarrassed. “I can’t stop you. Or won’t stop you, perhaps, because I refuse to take away your ability to make choices for yourself. But when you’re not sober, you can’t really make choices for yourself either, can you? That’s all I came to do. To prevent you from being harmed when you weren’t sober.”

“But when I am sober, I make the choice to come here and put myself in the limelight. And you knew my motivations to be a distraction. I consent to everything that happens to me when--”

“No.” 

Dixie blinks. “What do you mean, no?” 

“I mean, you can convince yourself all you like that it’s consensual. That does not make you correct. Real consent goes away the instant you are too drunk to make clear decisions.” Kory pauses in her speech, pursing her lips as she tries to find the right words. “You stumbled last night. Do you… even remember what we talked about? I was in your room for nearly an hour.” 

The memories don’t come flooding back. But for an instant, Dixie thinks she can remember Kory getting dressed, Kory sitting on the edge of her bed, Kory talking in hushed tones.

She thinks she remembers kissing her. 

Dixie looks away, unsure how to feel. If Kory kissed her, then she’s a hypocrite. But if Dixie kissed Kory, then…

“Do you remember something?” Kory asks, hopefully. 

“Not sure. Anything you feel like bringing up?” 

“You kissed me to distract me,” Kory says. “Don’t do that again. I won’t have sex with you when you’re drunk. Especially when you’re drunk and hurting.” 

Shit. 

“Noted,” Dixie says. She bites her lip. “Anything else?” 

“You told me to keep coming to galas.” 

Kory looks uncertain saying it. If it was too bold, Dixie probably would have said she was bluffing, lying to keep Dixie safe, where she could see for herself that she was fine. 

She almost says it anyways. 

...But she knows Kory would never lie about consent. 

Dixie doesn’t say anything to that, and Kory hesitates for another moment. “...You were drunk, so I can’t fully take you at your word,” she admits. “So I need to know now that you’re sober. If you truly want me to leave you alone, I will -- save for when I’m invited, or there is a team function that I am invited to.” 

“Is that code for ‘I’m going to get invited to all of your galas?’” 

Kory gives her an unimpressed look. “Dixie, I’m not trying to invade your life. I’m really not. I’m worried -- but if you tell me to leave you alone, I will. Even if you accept me being near when you’re drunk, it’s what you tell me sober that counts.” 

Dixie runs a hand through her bedhead. “Give me some time to think.” 

Kory nods -- but she looks sad, all the same. With that said, their conversation fizzles out. Kory starts to close the door. “I must change and go home,” she says, a convenient out. “I have a long flight back to San Francisco. But I’ll leave your things folded on the bed.”

“Are you -- flying home in your dress from last night?”

Kory tilts her head to the side. “Do you remember it or not?” 

Dixie’s face warms. “No. But it can’t be comfortable to fly in, whatever it is.” 

“I brought my costume, my love. How do you think I got here?” 

And wow, does Dixie feel slow. Obviously Kory had to fly here in something. 

Instead of dwelling on her mistake, Dixie triest to shake it off, giving her ex a muted smile. 

“Be safe?” 

“I always am,” Kory teases -- patently false, but Dixie appreciates the attempt. 

With that, the door closes. 

Dixie is left feeling strangely hollow. But she goes back to her room, and doesn’t come back to the 3rd floor guest room until she’s heard the sonic boom breaking the sky over the manor. 

Her clothes smell like sandalwood and fire. 

Like Kory. 

Dixie tries not to think about them as she tosses them into her hamper. 

\--

Dixie, as it turns out, does not have time to think. 

She would have, if she’d set aside time to do just that. But she doesn’t have time to think before the choice is ripped out of her hands. 

Next time she’s out in public, buying groceries and restocking on gatorade -- the good kind, because fuck Bruce and his yellow gatorade agenda. But just as soon as she’s filled her cart with gatorade et. all and gets to the front of the store to pay -- she runs into Vicki Vale. 

Dixie is really hoping that this time, for once, it’s actually a coincidence. She doubts it though. 

“Dixie Grayson?” Vicki says, despite Dixie’s efforts to duck down and hide her face in her high-necked jacket. But there’s no denying it -- she’s caught. So she puts on her best Grayson Smile, and hopes for the best. 

“Vicki,” she says, with enough false cheer to school a kindergarten teacher. “Wow! It’s been forever since I’ve seen you outside of a party.” And, because this is Gotham, she makes her smile a little faker and adds, “I honestly thought you had all your groceries delivered. It’s so funny to see you in person.”

It works, Dixie thinks. Vicki’s smile drops. Just a hair -- but it drops all the same. “I would have thought the same of you. Brushing elbows with us common folk, I never would have expected it.” 

“Oh, you know me. Born among normal people -- hard to kick certain habits.” 

“Habits, yes.” Vicki glances at her cart, and raises her pencil-thin brows. Then, her smile raises back to its usual waspy level. “I can see that certain habits stay strong.” 

Because there’s only so many reasons a woman her size would be buying three packs of gatorade. Vicki doesn’t know that it’s half for recovering from patrols. 

“Staying this figure doesn’t come easy. Don’t you know, electrolytes are the new protein.” She says it airily, like she’s heard it somewhere before -- somehow, she doesn’t think Vicki falls for it. Not with the way she’s keeping her eyes trained on Dixie’s cart. 

Vicki hums. “So is this a regular purchase for you, or…?” 

“Can I help you with something?” Dixie interrupts. “I mean, you look really concerned about my gatorade. But Brucie always uses it for his hikes and skiing trips. We go through these pretty quickly as an active family. But if you’re looking for diet tips, they really are great.” 

“I’m good, thanks.” 

And there it is -- the smile like ice. Dixie’s gotten under her skin. Though she does feel bad trying to recommend fake dieting tips. If it ends up online with impressionable teens following it, she’ll feel guilty about it for weeks. 

The line starts to move, and Dixie hopes against hope that Vicki will go away to buy her own few items. But no dice. Vicki stays on her. 

“So,” Vicki says, shifting her basket to rest against her hip. “I’m running the most fascinating article.” 

“I’m sure it is,” Dixie says politely. 

“We’re using the pictures my photographer snapped. The one of you and Kory Anders.” And that -- that gets Dixie’s attention. She can’t quite hide the surprise that flashes in her eyes. Vicki slides a notepad out of her purse, idly clicking a pen -- waiting to jot down anything, anything, that Dixie gives away. “Is it true?” 

“That depends on what you’re putting in the captain, I think.” 

“Oh, please. No one can deny the chemistry between you two,” Vicki teases. “And that kiss. So sweet. I barely realized you were drunk until she led you stumbling away.” 

Dixie swallows hard. “Brucie spends too much on the champagne for me not to enjoy it,” she says. “Oh, look. The next line over is clear. You should check out, before someone takes your spot.” 

Vicki looks unimpressed. She clicks her pen again. “We’re running the article tomorrow. Should I put you down for ‘no comment’?” 

“What, on whether or not Kory and I are together?” 

“Got it in one,” Vicki says, mock sweetly. 

Dixie swallows. She starts to say no comment. She really does. 

But. 

_ But _ . 

She remembers the tiniest piece of that moment. Of Kory being gentle and sweet. Of Kory asking if she wanted help making a scene; Kory letting Dixie guide her instead of forcing herself. Kory keeping the kiss light and sweet. 

Dixie had asked for this very scandal. 

And now, in the grocery store shopping lane, she wanted out. 

“I don’t think it’s anyone’s concern,” she says instead. Hesitant. Uncertain. 

Because she has a memory of the men before Kory. The ones that Kory pushed to the side, that she kept her safe from. The men hadn’t felt like a threat, per say. But they hadn’t felt good, either. 

Kory had. 

“If you’re not, it’s a delightful tease. I’m sure everyone will be happy to know you’re back on the market.” 

Dixie barely hears Vicki. 

“Back on the market,” she parrots. 

Vicki looks delighted. She starts to immediately jot down Dixie’s statement, and Dixie realizes exactly how Vicki is interpreting that. 

“Wait! No, I was just repeating you-”

But she knows how this reporter gig works. It’s a direct quote. Vicki doesn’t need to include context. Dixie’s heart jumps into her throat -- panic sets in. Because she knows what back on the market means. She’s been back on the market ever since she broke up with Kory. And for some men -- even before she broke up with Kory. 

But to print that she’s back on the market. To remove the ambiguity. 

That’s license for every man in Gotham to fight his way into her pants. 

And it will be a fight. One that Dixie isn’t sure she can always win. 

“Please don’t print that,” Dixie says, even though it’s useless to say that to a reporter. 

“You have to give me a reason not to, my dear.” Vicki smiles, but it’s a thin smile. “A reason to keep you off the market.” 

And god, Dixie hates that expression. 

“I’m not back on the market,” she says, before she can stop herself -- before she can rationalize why she wants to destroy that metaphor. “I don’t think I ever really was. Getting out of a serious relationship is painful. And the idea that I’m back on the market, like I’m somehow for sale. That’s not true. I never was back on the market, not in that way.” 

Vicki is quiet for a moment. Then, she taps the pen against the notepad. “When you say things like that, Ms. Grayson-Wayne, I do wonder what’s under all that hair of yours.” 

Dixie swallows hard. 

“I’ll ask once more before I leave you alone and print your statement.” Vicki eyes her coldly. Calculatingly. “Are you dating Kory Anders or not?” 

Dixie thinks back to Kory’s offer. 

And it’s only because of it that she finally says, “Yes.” 

At least she’s not violating Kory’s wishes, she thinks. At least Kory offered on her own terms. Even this, even fake. At least it was something Kory’s agreed to in advance. 

“Well! I thought you’d never say,” Vicki says. 

“We wanted to keep it private,” Dixie mumbles. 

“Then you should have thought of that before everyone saw that kiss last night.” The line starts to move, and Vicki jots down her final answer. She puts her basket onto the conveyor belt, then smiles at Dixie over her shoulder. “Thank you for being honest with me. Have a lovely afternoon!”

And just like that, it’s over.

Dixie stares down at her shopping cart full of gatorade, and wishes that she’d just ordered online. 


End file.
